A thief stole my heart
by Altair's sister
Summary: Meet Qassanda: A proud, beautiful Nordic thief who can rob a shirt from a man's back without looking, but can barely hold a sword. A trip to Cyrodiil kicks off the wildest combination of events she has ever seen, and changes her in ways too many to count as she battles against her ancestors, learns of a great family secret and falls in love. This is the story of a thief.
1. Chapter 1

**AN. Okay, because I ran out of room in the summary box (because I suck at summaries) I forgot to mention that there will be sexual references and violence.**

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Qassanda's nimble fingers slid into the dark elf's pocket with practiced ease, she laid the silver ring in the bottom of his pocket gently and withdrew her fair hand. She slipped out from behind the plain shipping crates she was hiding behind with the stealth of only a master sneak.

After distancing herself from the elf, Qassanda raised her luscious green eyes to the man standing in his shop stall, boasting of the red elixir he was selling, his eyes grazed over her and she tapped her right wrist with her left index finger twice, the man returned his eyes to his crowd, laying down his elixir

"It looks like my time's up, come back tomorrow if you want to buy" the chattering crowd scattered and Qassanda casually made her way to the red haired salesman watching her lazily, he gave her a knowing smirk

"Good job, lass, I knew you'd be able to do it smoothly" he said, his thick accent moulding his words into sounds almost as beautiful as his face, Qassanda flashed a smile full of teeth

"Here, I grabbed this while I was busy" she said in a similar accent, handing him a bulging coin purse, he laughed

"Good job, Qass" Qassanda turned to look at the dark elf she had just planted a ring on as a man dressed in the tell-tale armour of a hold guard with a light purple sash claiming him as Riften's approached angrily

"All right, Brand-Shei. Turn out your pockets, we know you have it" the elf's slightly green-tinged face scrunched in confusion

"Have what? What in blazes are you talking about?" he hissed at the guard, noticing the eyes judging from afar, if the guard didn't leave soon, unsavoury rumours would spread and his business would collapse

"Don't play stupid. I said turn out your pockets…now!" the guard snarled in the strong, manly Nordic accent which defined many of Skyrim's citizens, Brand-Shei scowled, digging into his pockets with his hands

"I'm telling you, I don't…" his finger looped around something which wasn't supposed to be there, he pulled out the plain silver ring and looked at it

"Wait, what's this ring? This isn't mine!" Qassanda turned away from the exchange, knowing how it would end.

The Nordic woman still chuckled to herself as she heard the guard leading Brand-Shei away, she found eyes as green as the forest resting on her, matching the colour of her own beautiful orbs, she returned the gaze and the merchant wrapped an arm around her shoulder, holding her close to his chest

"Let's go get a drink, does that sound good, lass?" Qassanda shot him a smirk from beneath her hair, the strands of soft perfection seemed to find the perfect balance between the red of fresh blood and fire-salt orange, tumbling over her shoulders in a silky waterfall of colour matching the man next to her

"It sounds good if you're paying, Bryn" he grinned at her

"Alright, but count this as a family favour" Qassanda laughed

"As you wish, brother" Brynjolf held open the door to the Bee and Barb, always the gentleman.

Qassanda sauntered into the inn, her hips swaying seductively with every step.

She sat herself down at the bar and glanced up at Brynjolf, who was taking his sweet time in arriving next to her and seating himself on a bar stool, the hissy Argonian who usually minded the orders was absent however, and in her place was a kind Argonian male named Talen-Jei, he gave Qassanda what looked like a smile, a difficult assumption to make, with the fangs and scales concealing his emotions somewhat, arranging some cheese on the counter he watched Qassanda with his yellow eyes

"How can I help, Qass?" he asked fondly, ignoring her brother, Qassanda leaned forwards

"I'm interested in one of your special drinks tonight, Talen" interest lit up his eyes, the only things that Qassanda could use to define his emotions

"Of course, which one would you like?" Qassanda flashed Brynjolf a grin

"Get me a Velvet Lechance, would you?" she said, making the man roll his eyes, Talen's mood considerably worsened when he asked Brynjolf the same question, they soon sat with their drinks in hand, Brynjolf affectionately grasping a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve mead, and Qassanda playing with the handle on her metal tankard filled with her own drink.

The siblings chatted merrily; drinking away until they were a few drinks in, Qassanda drained the last flagon and placed it on the bar

"I'm going to head back to the cistern, brother" she said, beginning to make her way out of the inn before his accented voice halted her

"Qass, if you don't eat something, everyone will have to deal with you" Qassanda turned to look at her brother, a fake pout pulling on her lips and drawing the eyes of every male in the room

"What do you mean to say, Bryn?" he gestured her over with a single hand

"I mean to say that you become as irritable as a damned dremora when you're hungry; and nearly as deadly" the pout was swept from Qassanda's face by a beautiful smirk

"That is true" she said with a small chuckle, taking a seat at the bar once again and dipping her spoon into the stew before her, before long the stew was simply a few drops of broth settled in the bottom of the bowl and a content feeling settling in Qassanda's stomach, she gave Brynjolf an amused glance

"Is there anything more you want me to do, my king?" she said teasingly, Brynjolf smirked at her

"Get out of here, lass" he said with a grin, waving Qassanda out, the Nord smirked back and left the inn, the door creaking shut softly behind her.

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**Let me know your thoughts on this chapter, I've already written 188 pages on the story and I may not post them if people dislike the story itself. This chapter is more character development than anything.**


	2. Chapter 2

**There won't be any kind of pattern to how long each chapter is, or when I update them (I figured I should clear that up before it irritates someone), so don't expect it to be like Merzost', in the fact that I had a strict number of pages used for each chapter.**

**Thanks to Brelaina for being the first person the review my story and make me feel good about it. There will be cake for all reviewers!**

**00011 00001 01100 00101**

**^It spells cake in the binary language. It's the best I can do for now!**

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Qassanda stood in the darkened cemetery, knowing that the modest rays of the twin moons illuminated her skin brilliantly.

The Nordic thief approached a tomb, gently plucking some nightshade from the soft, moist ground, and approaching the single stone coffin nestled in the brick box, Qassanda's fur-lined boots tapped lightly on the stone tiles as she approached the two steps supporting the coffin, then bent at the waist and pressed her fingers against the symbol protruding from the centre, it was a small symbol, of a circle with a triangle connected to its top and bottom, the stone groaned as it moved and Qassanda stood upright, watching as the coffin retracted into the brick wall, revealing a set of stone steps and a manhole.

Qassanda started down the steps and pulled the steel chain protruding from the wall, with the wince-inducing scrape of stone against stone, the coffin slid back into place and the small space was only illuminated by the torch flickering merrily as it spread its light through the area, Qassanda lifted the lid of the manhole and ignored the ladder awaiting her feet, instead simply dropping to the tough ground below, she passed Niruin the wood elf, he glanced up at her from beneath his hood, hunched over the iron cooking pot

"Hello there Qass, back already?" Qassanda shot him a flirtatious grin

"I knew you wouldn't be able to bear it if I were gone for any longer" she purred, Niruin chuckled and returned to his cooking, throwing a chunk of potato into the mix.

Qassanda slipped past and shot a discreet glare at the man behind the guildmaster's desk, Qassanda hated him with every fibre of her being, everything about him made her seethe in rage, from his ugly, crooked nose, to his greasy mop of mud-coloured hair, to his dirty fingernails and cursed sword.

Mercer glanced up as he felt Qassanda's glare and a smirk twisted his pale lips, making Qassanda shake her head and turn away.

She didn't feel safe around that man.

She had always been afraid to sleep in the bed offered to her inside the cistern, frightened that if she did, she would awaken to find Mercer's knife in her back, or worse, that he would try to take her for his own… Qassanda shook her head viciously and threaded her fingers through her red locks of perfect hair, opening the door separating the cistern from the ragged flagon.

Qassanda turned to the left immediately after closing the door, her fur trimmed boots tapping softly against the stone, she came across the double doors she had installed, with the best lock money could buy, fingers could steal, or a pretty face could take.

The lock was designed so that a small mechanism tapped at any foreign object the moment it touched the tumblers, the key was too strong to be affected by the little tap, but any lockpicks would be broken before the thief had a clue.

She reached into her pocket for the cool metal key and it slid soundlessly into the lock, shutting the door behind her and locking it, Qassanda entered her room, there was once two beds inside, but she had removed one and refitted the room from a cold stone area to a homey place which looked warm and comfortable, disposing of her boots, Qassanda sat herself comfortably on her large bed, feeling the soft sheets lower under her weight.

She glanced around the room, happy with how comfortable it looked; the stone floor was completely covered by a large rug she had made by sewing together many sabre cat pelts, her feet sank into the thick, sand-coloured fur and it softened the ground considerably, she had spent an awfully long time hammering the wooden planks onto the walls, the dark wood comforting her more than those harsh stones ever could.

The furniture was made from the very same dark wood, a wardrobe for her clothes, a chest for some weapons, a bookshelf laden with books, an alchemy table, and an end table beside her bed with a light and a strongbox on it, the strongbox was where she kept the gold she didn't carry in the pouch at her waist, and the rare gems she was loathe to sell, not to mention some choice jewellery she had stolen, Qassanda's room was much her own, there was not another soul who had set foot inside after she had claimed it, she doubted another member of the guild had even seen the fruits of many weeks of hard labour.

Qassanda began to remove her armour, a gift from the daedric prince Hircine; the armour was named the Saviour's hide. The thief stored her armour in her wardrobe and pulled the short, fingerless gloves from her hands, approaching her bookshelf in naught but her smallclothes.

She selected a book and neared the alchemy table in the corner, pulling some ingredients from the barrel beside her and grinding, mashing and cutting until she had a nice paste, she raised the wooden bowl to her nose and sniffed, smirking at the sweet scent emanating from her ingredients, she flipped open the book and her lush eyes grazed over her own words, adding more to the paste until she had a clear liquid, she uncorked an unused vial and poured the liquid in, emptying the bowl and corking the liquid again.

A sly grin slipped onto Qassanda's face as she sloshed the contents of the vial around. A perfect poison, if she might be so bold. Her concoction was powerful enough to kill a giant instantaneously, clear as a flawless diamond, and was as tasteless and scentless as the air around her.

A knock on the door drew Qassanda's eyes and she placed the vial inside her end table carefully, with a few more of her best potions and poisons. Looking up once again, Qassanda called out to the door

"Who's there?" there was a peaceful pause, punctuated by a familiar voice

"Ulfric Stormcloak" Qassanda rolled her sagebrush eyes at her brother's horrible attempt at a joke. As a child, she had been sweet on the man who would become the Jarl of Windhelm, unknowing of the boy's future, of him beginning a war, and possibly taking the throne as high king.

Qassanda cared little, she didn't care whether the Stormcloaks or the Imperials won this bloody war, she just knew that she would be the one to steal all valuables from the winner.

Slipping into a soft tunic of tundra cotton which covered her upper thighs, Qassanda opened her door, leaning against the doorframe to greet Brynjolf

"At least I grew out of that feeling, remind me of which person here finds himself hot for Arya?" Brynjolf scowled at her

"That's not funny, lass. I don't feel that way anymore either, besides, she married herself already" Qassanda shrugged, Arya was a kind, beautiful Bosmer who had moved to Skyrim with her half-sister; Lupa a mere seven years ago, they had entered Riften in hope of finding a job, and instead found Qassanda, they had immediately taken a liking to one another and became fast friends.

Lupa introduced Qassanda to Arya, and Qassanda introduced the half-sisters to Brynjolf, who had become speechless from the mere sight of the elf, he had later told Qassanda that he was developing feelings for Arya and she had encouraged him to court her, though, the half-sisters eventually moved to Whiterun, and only returned two years later to Riften with news that tore so deeply at Brynjolf's heart that even Thrynn with his thick head noticed that something was wrong.

Brynjolf hadn't attended the wedding, though he was invited by Arya, who was oblivious to his desire. Qassanda couldn't help but congratulate her friend on finding the man she did, a strong, sturdy Nord from Whiterun with silver eyes which rarely left the elf, well-spoken and intelligent, he was the perfect match for Arya's quick mind and sharp tongue.

Though Qassanda was unable to attend the ceremony, executing a job for Vex, she still met with the newlyweds the next day in the street and took a quick liking to her friend's new husband.

Lupa however was a lone woman, preferring to stay that way, she travelled the land and stayed with her half-sister and marriage-brother whenever she visited Skyrim, letters speaking of her travels and adventures sent regularly.

Qassanda huffed a sigh and her eyes slid to the roof

"I'm going to do some travelling" she finally said, Brynjolf looked up in surprise

"Where to, lass?" he asked, his eyes locked on hers, she looked over her shoulder at a huge map which claimed much of her wall, the map depicted Tamriel and all of its countries, with the major holds in each country detailed in neat handwriting

"Cyrodiil. I'm tired of seeing the same cities, Bryn, I want to see more…and take more" she finished with a sly smirk, Brynjolf chuckled

"Be sure to steal me something" he said with finality, turning around and leaving, having forgotten why he had come to see his sister in the first place, Qassanda laughed quietly to herself and closed her door again.

Fishing a strong pack out of a corner of the room, Qassanda began to fill it, some clothes, a few poisons and a book or two occupied the space not stolen by the food she had packed for the trip to the border, once she reached Bruma she could restock at an inn.

A few thousand septims settled in her pouch for food and bedding, and Qassanda retrieved her bedroll from a cupboard, planning to tie it to her horse's saddle the next day.

Finally was a map of Cyrodiil, small enough to fold and lay in her pouch, and detailing some major cities and small towns. Qassanda rummaged in her wardrobe and fished out some hide armour and boots, laying them beside her pack with her fingerless leather gloves. At such short notice, Qassanda was sure that she was annoying people by simply upping and leaving, but she just wanted to leave, _now_.

The red-haired thief settled on her bed, the soft sheets relaxing her and encouraging her to lay her head on the equally soft pillow. Pulling the sheets over her body, Qassanda was asleep in moments, the dreamless unconsciousness bliss to her tired body.

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**I came up with the idea for Qassanda when I made a character on Skyrim who looked a ****_lot _****like a female version of our favourite accented thief! So I screwed around with names and called her Qassanda (because Cassandra didn't suit her) and pretended she was Bryn's twin sister and best friend! Qassanda is one of my favourite characters out of the many I have made so far, and I expect (with the amount of material offered) that her story will continue for some time!**

**Feel free to message or review with any questions, comments, or complaints**

**Drem, yol, lok**


	3. Cyrodiil

**AN: And here is the next chapter! This one is longer than the other two, as a Christmas present! (Or Hanukah, or any other religious holiday which takes part around this time of year and I don't know about). **

**I have studied this chapter much more thoroughly for grammatical errors, but I may not have found and fixed all of them.**

**On a final note, Qassanda sings a few songs in this story, all of which I have written and therefore need no disclaimers for. The songs are, in order of appearance (so far in what I have written, not what I have posted): ****_A thief stole my heart, The fox, _****and****_ O speaker._**

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When Qassanda's eyes slid open smoothly, they immediately laid on her pack. Sitting up and smirking, Qassanda remembered her journey beginning that day. The Nord stood at her full height and stretched her body out, grabbing a nearby wooden comb and tugging it through her hair. She was rarely tired in the morning, from the moment she awoke she was ready to leap into action.

Pulling on and buckling her hide armour, Qassanda cast her eyes onto the beloved silver and black dagger she often wielded, waiting on her end table to be unsheathed from its scabbard and sheathed in flesh. Shaking her head, Qassanda turned instead to her weapon chest and removed from it an elven blade, more for show to warn off attackers than anything else. From experience Qassanda knew that bandits and thieves rarely passed an opportunity to attack a beautiful woman, thinking her weak.

Her real power laid in the dagger sheathed at her waist, it was a glass dagger with an edge as sharp as Qassanda's wit, she hoisted the pack onto her shoulder, the familiar feeling of its strap pressing onto her shoulder comforting, and tied her pouch around her waist, taking her sleeping roll in her hand and leaving the room.

Outside was none other than Brynjolf, waiting for her with a smile

"I thought I'd see my little sister off." he stated simply, walking with her as she left the Cistern. The pair continued out of the cemetery, along Riften's stone path and towards the gate. At the stables Qassanda greeted her horse; a sturdy stallion named Frostbite, she tied her bedroll to his saddle and turned to her brother.

"I'll leave quickly so the journey will take less time" Brynjolf nodded and pulled her into a hug

"Take care of yourself" she pressed her lips against his cheek once and mounted Frostbite, spurring him onto the road and beginning to sing

"_Oh in the Rift there is a one,  
whose eyes shall follow his honeyed tongue,  
and with this song, I'm warning you,  
to never think that a word is true!_

_Oh you sneaky thief, you thieving sneak!  
Your eyes entrap me, it's hard to think!  
And now I want to tear you apart,  
oh, you cruel thief, who stole my heart!_

_Fingers so deft, nobody could feel,  
touch so soft, is he even real?  
He took my purse, and my heart went too  
and then, simply away he flew,  
he left me there, I fell to his art,  
that blasted thief who's stolen my heart!_

_No gems are safe, nor piles of gold,  
his eyes entrap, like tales of old.  
He hands you a kiss, waits 'till you're weak,  
then he takes all, that damned sneak!_

_So never trust the men of the Rift,  
they are all blessed with a strange gift,  
they win your favour, wait 'till it's dark,  
and then they'll come and steal your heart!_"

It took several days for Qassanda to navigate the mountains marking Skyrim's border, Frostbite seeming to find it easy, he was a sturdy stallion who was at home in the cold, harsh conditions, his coat was an odd colour, an almost blue, the colour of frost early in the morning.

The North of Cyrodiil was much like Skyrim, a cold mountainous place in which Bruma was settled, Qassanda rode through the huge brown gates into Bruma at an easy pace, nodding at the guards in their chainmail and yellow cuirass.

Dropping to the ground and taking Frostbite's reins, she led the stallion through the city, halting outside what remained of the great shrine of Talos when a child approached her gaily

"Can I pat your horse? Pleaaaaase?" the little dark haired Imperial asked, Qassanda smiled and tugged on Frostbite's reins, he lowered his head and the child petted him softly, giggling. Qassanda spoke softly, fondly

"This is Frostbite, I think he likes you" Frostbite snorted and nuzzled the child, making her giggle even louder

"Where are you from?" she asked politely, it was rare to see such a well-mannered child, especially for those who lived in the Rift.

"We hail from Skyrim, it's a cold land over those mountains" she said, pointing at the Jerall mountain range, the child pouted

"I'm from Cheydinhal" she muttered as if it were the most boring city in the country, Qassanda laughed and kissed her forehead, continuing to lead Frostbite through the city and out another gate.

Stone tiles threw the sound of Frostbite's hooves into clarity, the loud clop of each footfall disturbing the still evening.

The pair made their way to an old wooden building draped in a blanket of snow, a few horses grazed in a pen fenced off with wood, Qassanda approached the man standing with the horses, brushing one.

The Cyrodiilian horses were nothing like Skyrim's. Delicate legs supporting streamlined bodies, the horses were bred for speed and easy lives, while Skyrim bred their horses to be powerful and sturdy, as well as at home in the chill of Skyrim's wilds, the man turned to look at Qassanda and swallowed, wondering how this beautiful woman could stand such cold weather in nothing but hide armour. She spoke, her sexy accent immediately entrancing the Imperial

"Hello there lad, I'd like to stable my horse here, if I may" she said, the man shivered, wrapped tightly in his fur cloak

"It's 10 gold for a night" a pout claimed her lips, making him blush

"Surely you could make an exception just for me?" She murmured softly, he was about to say no when her eyes locked with his. Incredible worlds of green set into her perfect face and surrounded by her long lashes. Before he could stop himself he was completely infatuated

"Leave him here for as long as you like, free" he whimpered at the beautiful smile which claimed her face

"Thank you lad" she purred, returning to the city and smirking at how easy it was to get what she wanted, after asking a Nordic guard for directions, he showed her to an inn, leaving with

"Safe travels, kinsman" on his lips.

Qassanda lifted her gaze to the sign hanging above the door of the inn, claiming it to be named the Jerall view. The thief sauntered in, her hips swaying hypnotically. The inn was warm and inviting, and Qassanda made her way to the bar, leaning on it and flashing a beautiful grin at the innkeeper.

Qassanda kept in Cyrodiil for many weeks, travelling from Bruma to Leyawiin and back again. In Cheydinhal, she found herself confronted with an abandoned house, the curiosity overwhelmed the thief and she broke off the boards entrapping the door and picked the lock with practised ease.

The thief wandered into the house and looked around, the place was littered with spider webs, the wood was rotting and the whole house smelled of mould.

Spying a door, Qassanda moved deeper into the house, moving through a hole in the brick wall to walk through a dirt passageway. The floor slanted down and the light seemed to glow red in the passage, Qassanda's feet led her down and she slipped past some debris, finding herself before a large black door with aged blood staining the stone beneath it, as she stepped closer to investigate the door, it began to creep open.

Qassanda darted away, fleeing the passage and ducking behind some barrels and crates as the footsteps moved closer. Waiting with bated breath, Qassanda watched as an Argonian male stepped into the room and looked around. He wore dark robes with a hood covering his head, two holes in the hood releasing his horns from the confines, his sharp yellow eyes grazed over Qassanda and he shrugged

"Must have been my imagination" he muttered softly, leaving the house.

After waiting to assure herself that the Argonain was gone, Qassanda slipped out after him and trotted away from the house, looking towards the great statue towering in the middle of the city. A black head bobbed at its feet. Qassanda frowned in concentration, scouring her mind for the reason why she felt familiarity to the person, it was not long before the woman lazily walked towards the thief, a grin on her face

"What do we have here?" she laughed, it took a moment for Qassanda to recognise her soft golden eyes and the hair as black as the void, with lips to match

"Lupa?" the Nord nodded and a grin tugged at her dark lips

"I never thought you to be a traveller, Qass" Qassanda shrugged one shoulder, her eyes mischievous

"I was curious about Cyrodiil, it seems like an interesting place" Lupa took her hand

"Let me show you something, then" she said in her lilting voice, leading Qassanda out of the city, she gave a friendly wave to the guards and Qassanda winked at them as they passed. A short while afterwards, they stood before a crumbling fort, Lupa looked up at the weathered stonework, joy etched into every detail of her face

"This is Fort Farragut. Amazing, isn't it?" when Qassanda didn't answer, she turned to the thief

"When are you returning to Skyrim?" the Nord sighed

"Soon, there have been whispers of Skyrim's conflict spreading into Bruma. I want no part in that, I'm leaving Cheydinhal in a few days, from there, it'll be straight to Riften" Lupa flashed a cheeky grin at her friend

"If you'll only be here for a few more days, we're going to do something fun!" Qassanda laughed, Lupa was always the immature one

"Exactly what did you have in mind?" Lupa pointed to the fort and Qassanda's eyebrows shot up

"Exploring an old fort?" Lupa nodded furiously and Qassanda sighed, bending over and plucking a violet flower from the ground at her feet, she pocketed the flower in hope of using it later in her Alchemy and rose, meeting Lupa's excited gaze

"Let's go then" they descended upon the creaky wooden door, which groaned in protest as it was forced open. A terrible stench oozed out of the fort, as if it hadn't been entered in a long, long time.

Lupa seemed to be dealing with the scent of stale air, death and mould much worse than her companion, leaning against a wall and gagging.

There was no secret.

Lupa was a werewolf. She had told Qassanda many months ago, before she began to travel, she had joined the companions of Whiterun, she was now a werewolf, her senses heightened above even a Khajiit's, and her raw strength more formidable than an Orc's, even in her plain human form.

Yet Lupa still retained that Nordic hardiness which dared the gods to challenge her, and that natural beauty she could wield like a weapon.

Qassanda laid a comforting hand on her friend's cheek

"You don't have to." was all she needed to murmur, her plump lips barely moving. Lupa flashed a wide, wolfish grin

"I just needed a moment to adjust, I'm fine now" she chirped, leading the thief into the old fort. Right past the entrance to the fort, the women descended a set of stairs and found a metal gate; Lupa wrapped her hands around a nearby lever and yanked it so hard that Qassanda expected the brittle metal to break clean in half. With a creak and a groan, the gate rattled open, emerging into a huge room with multiple doorways leading away. Lupa selected one at random and led Qassanda through it, seemingly amazed at each minor detail she encountered.

The pair of Nords wandered around the maze of stone corridors, traps too old to work anymore laid on the ground, walls, everywhere. Skeletons laid scattered on the ground, but whether they were from people caught in the traps or the frightening walking dead she had happened across once, Qassanda didn't know.

Strange blue lights, like fire flickered around the fort, lighting their way. Lupa stopped them both with a cry which made Qassanda immediately draw her dagger, though no danger presented itself. Qassanda's eyes slid over to her friend, the dark-haired Nord was frozen in place, an ecstatic expression leaving her mouth agape.

"By the nine! What _is_ that?" she asked herself, running down a corridor, crunching discarded and brittle bones beneath the boots of her steel plated armour. Qassanda called after her, but to no avail

"Lupa! Where in Oblivion are you going? Lupa!" when no answer floated down the passageway, Qassanda gave a shiver.

As a thief, Qassanda was a part of the shadows; they were her family, her home. The shadows protected her in their cool embrace, held her where nobody could see, yet at that moment, the shadows only felt lonely and strange.

A thief didn't belong here. Qassanda was accustomed to using her quick tongue and good looks to get what she wanted; she was so out of place in this old ruin of a fort that for the first time in many years, she felt very afraid.

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**I like Fort Farragut! After I completed the Dark Brotherhood questline in Oblivion (which almost made me cry), I chose to live in that old place, and I liked it! It looks pretty cozy for an abandoned fort whose only occupant is an assassin!**

**If you're still reading my crazy ramblings, I FUCKING LOVE AVATAR! (The last airbender, not the blue people movie). I'm up to book 3 now (or season 3, however you prefer to name it), and I have a major anime crush on Zuko. I don't know why, but something about him is just hot! (Get it?) And I can actually say that about him, because he's my age! HORAAY FOR FIREBENDERS!**

**I would have updated a bit earlier, but my absoloute huggable, sexy, love-stealing boyfriend bought me Dishonored for Christmas, and I've been addicted to it! I have discovered over 15 different ways to kill people in that game and I'm still counting!**

**Sorry for rambling, but I'm very happy and NOTHING CAN TAKE AWAY MY HAPPY. **

**Feel free to message or review with any questions, comments, or complaints**

_**Zu lokal zey pah! **_

_**Namas fah Henry. Gjok Henry. Henry vis shur govey okah pikoon voth aan dol pusahkrii!**_


	4. Creeping death and sneaking shadows

**I actually really like this chapter, but I think that Qassanda is slightly too confident for somebody who is out of place and frightened. Oh, well. Let's just say that she's really cocky and that it overcomes her fear. It'll be our little secret!**

**I keep forgetting freaking disclaimers! Skyrim does not belong to me, it is the product of Bethesda, as is the land of Tamriel, as are the majority of characters included in this piece of writing which I turn no profit from (aside from the profit of joy, gained by the knowledge of people reading my strange stories and thoughts).**

**Do I add too many OCs? **

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Qassanda moved through the fort with stealth fitting one of her skill, she hugged the shadows closely, her footfalls silent, even to a werewolf's ears.

Her body was hunched in a crouch, low and steady, she crept around, her ears straining to the ends of her mortal abilities for a sound announcing Lupa's return, a silent sigh of relief passed over Qassanda's lips as she found herself before a huge metal gate, the room beyond its bars was cold stone, and it took Qassanda less than a moment to find the lever which opened the gate, she pulled on it, it wouldn't budge.

She pulled harder, still nothing.

She pulled as hard as she could, digging her heels into the ground and straining against the old lever, it didn't move a single bit.

Scowling, Qassanda stood and kicked the lever with all of her strength, it creaked back and the gate rattled as it lifted, Qassanda stepped into the room and hugged the wall, clothed in shadow as she moved around the room, checking for any signs of life.

When she was satisfied with the emptiness of the room, she approached an old torch bolted to the wall, after sniffing the top of the torch, she deemed it able to sustain a flame and looked at her hand.

Qassanda was a simply terrible mage. She at least knew a few basic spells, a single weak healing spell which was only really good for minor cuts and the occasional shallow gash, the only other spell she knew was a flame spell, she could only feed the spell for a few seconds though, and the flame was as weak and delicate as a newborn babe.

Breaking the torch sconce off the wall, Qassanda touched the palm of her hand to the sticky liquid coating the head of the torch, summoning the fire spell and jerking her hand away as the torch was ignited. Light and the slightest bit of heat began to fill the room, the shadows fleeing from the brightness.

Qassanda carried the torch through the room, lighting the torches on the walls and finally jamming the first torch back into the broken sconce.

Now that the room was completely illuminated, Qassanda cast her gaze around.

Hanging from the walls were tattered and worn tapestries, it looked like they once bore the image of a black handprint. A small single bed perched in the corner surrounded by a chest, cupboard and dresser, her eyes grazed over the single bookshelf, a rotted chair beside it.

A table bore some alchemical items next to an open coffin with a pile of bones haphazardly scattered inside it, a barrel sat crouched beside it, and once Qassanda managed to open the barrel, she was confronted with multitudes of shining red apples.

The glint of the torchlight against the skin was like the most handsome man in the world beckoning her forward, just begging her to have a taste. What confused Qassanda was the knowledge that somehow the apples seemed to be in in pristine condition despite the obvious fact that hundreds of years had passed since the last living being had set foot in this place.

Sensing something wrong, Qassanda lifted one apple to her face, sniffing it. It smelled completely normal to her.

A whisper seemed to echo from the walls themselves

"_Bite the apple…_" Qassanda gave a shiver at the rich, low voice. It felt almost as if fingers dipped in ice were trailing up her spine, sending sparks and shivers simultaneously through her body.

Qassanda whipped around, hoping to find Lupa standing behind her, hand raised with her fingers spread and a grin curling her black lips upwards. Yet Qassanda knew there was no one there even before she looked. She could feel it in her bones, so why did she still feel shocked and frightened when her eyes only met with the massive stone column behind her?

Qassanda looked back at the apple and threw it into the barrel once again. She was not an idiot. She saw the dusty poisons scattered on the table, the withered nightshade and the shrivelled human heart simply lying in plain sight. The apples could only have been poisoned.

The alchemist who had poisoned them was no novice either, for the apples to be in such pristine condition, even after how long the fort had been left to crumble, and for there to be no scent to the poison really did impress the thief, a smirk of appreciation crossing her plump lips, Qassanda reached back into the barrel and pulled another apple from the pile, looking around and finding a faded pair of trousers inside the dresser. She wrapped the apple in the trousers and stored it in her pocket, resolving to give it to Brynjolf as a gift.

Qassanda moved to the old bookshelf, rotting and falling apart. Upon one of the shelves, precariously placed on the edge was an iron jewellery box.

It was locked, but this was no challenge to Qassanda, who produced some lockpicks from her pouch and slid them into the box, tapping softly and sliding the pick around until she heard the satisfying click of tumblers falling into place.

Inside the box she found 10 septims, a silver nugget, and a copper ring with a pearl laid in it. Qassanda picked up the ring and smirked, it would serve as a pleasant reminder of her small adventure.

The Nord was about to slide the ring onto her finger when a voice halted her, that same, deep, rich voice from before, with a slight echo to it which brought shivers down her spine

"_Put it back_" the voice said, Qassanda could pinpoint it this time, the voice came from behind her.

Clenching the fist which wasn't holding the ring, Qassanda turned as she began to growl out her sentence

"Lupa, I swear by Talos…" she stopped herself, sharply inhaling in fear. The being before her narrowed his eyes

"_Expecting someone else, were you?_" he said in that hypnotising voice, stepping forwards, which made Qassanda shrink back.

The creature before her had a man's body, cloaked in robes which she had no words to describe; a hood was settled upon his head, shielding one of his eyes from the angle which Qassanda looked on, his only visible eye was a dull pool of snowy white set in his face.

The strangest thing yet was the most obvious; his entre figure was nearly completely transparent, tinged in a shade of light blue that she had never seen before. Wisps of smoke floated from his body lazily, thinning and disappearing before coming two hands away from him, and he watched her eyes as she took in every detail.

Stories. That was the only time she had heard of this happening. A ghost stood before her. A spectre. A man dead for Talos knows how long! The ghost smirked at the shock on her face before she composed herself.

Qassanda relaxed her shoulders and rested her weight on one leg, her arse slightly pushed out from the action. A dead man was still a man after all, and Qassanda could have any man she wanted, even some women were hypnotised by her charms! This man before her was no different.

"I _was _expecting another…but now you've arrived, I can hardly remember the other" she said in a silky voice. The spectre took no notice of her lazy attempt at interesting him

"_Put the ring back_" he demanded, his attractive voice becoming intimidating. Qassanda pouted, not letting any true emotions show

"Now, why would I do that if it keeps your attention on me?" she purred flirtatiously, the ghost narrowed his white eyes warningly

"_I will not say it again; return that ring to the box. Now_" Qassanda let a smirk curl her lips and fingered the ring, dropping it into her cleavage

"You can have it if you take it from me" she murmured, gasping as a hand as cold as Winterhold's stone wrapped around her throat and shoved her backwards, the bookshelf behind her crumbled as her body collided with it and yet the man didn't stop, pinning Qassanda against the wall by her throat and slowly lifting her off the ground with strength only fitting for an orc.

As Qassanda kicked and struggled, she felt her consciousness slipping away slowly and tried to pull air into her aching lungs. Yet none of the sweetly stale air of the fort filled her mouth as she tried to pull his hand from her neck, a silent scream on her lips.

The spectre seemed to release her throat just enough for her to suck in tiny wisps of air; enough to keep her conscious, not comfortable.

"_Do you want to die, woman?_" it was not a sarcastic remark, nor a rhetorical question, as she had heard before, the man with one hand slowly killing her was genuinely offering another option. Qassanda scowled, blaming Brynjolf for raising such a prideful woman, her scowl slipped back into that flirtatious smirk, in spite of the death reaching for her with cold hands

"If you're what's waiting for me, lad" she murmured, the ghostly man tightened his fingers again, bruising her flesh from the powerful grip. Qassanda lost a tiny bit of her precious air as she hissed in pain, then stopped herself as she gasped for air, her hands pulling at his fingers, trying to force them away from her throat.

The man lowered her body so that her head was only slightly above him, and the toes of her boots just brushed the stones beneath her feet, the soft fabric of his hood brushed her cheek as his chilling lips moved to her ear

"_Answer me, Nord._" He murmured as Qassanda's consciousness began to fade "_Do…you want…to die?_" he spoke with regular pauses, emphasising the fact that he would tolerate no more joking or flirting, when her vision blacked out for a moment, Qassanda knew that whatever she said next would be what her loved ones would remember her by.

She couldn't disappoint them, now could she?

"One last kiss to seal the deal" she said with the last breath, twisting her head to press her lips against the cold lips of the spectre.

She could hear his growl of rage, though he was kind enough to allow a dying woman her final wish, squeezing her neck so tightly she was sure that it would simply snap.

Then the darkness took her.

* * *

**Ok, I know that it may be irritating to constantly speak of the ghost as attractive, but seriously, I think we all know who he is, and if we could only look past Oblivion's shitty graphics, we could see that he's fucking HOT.**

_**Lokal imzik hi sonah.**_


	5. When everything goes to Oblivion

**I did a thing. And it has people in it. FUCKING GHOSTS FOR THE LOVE OF CUDDLES!**

**HUGE thanks to Brelaina for proofreading this chapter and being so helpful in general!**

* * *

Qassanda opened her eyes. All she saw was black, almost as if they were still shut. Warmth assaulted her body, and she finally felt the figure clutching her close, and then, absolute bliss. Qassanda inhaled deeply, the scent of flowers sweet on the roof of her mouth before all of the breath rushed from her in a sigh which made the figure pull away.

"Qass? Oh, thank the nine! You're okay! I'm so glad you're okay!" Qassanda coughed and smiled at Lupa.

"I'm alright, you don't need to worry," Lupa's eyes were disbelieving to the point of accusation.

"Qass, what in _oblivion_ happened in there? I walked into the room and found you on the ground, slumped against a wall! You even have bruises on your _neck, _for Talos' sake! It took me a few minutes to actually get you breathing again." Qassanda stroked her throat gingerly, it was sore and each breath rasped through her rough throat, but felt too incredible to describe, just having breath in any case.

"I…I…" Anger suddenly flashed onto Qassanda's face

"Damn this place to Oblivion!" she snarled, her usually alluring voice becoming enraged and intimidating. She stood up and stormed back to Cheydinhal, her rage deadly to the unwary. The Nord stomped into the Newlands Lodge, unlocking her door with a key and grabbing her pack from the bed in the room. She thrust everything into the pack and slung it over her shoulder, leaving the inn in a huff.

Lupa trailed after Qassanda faintly.

"Qass, tell me what in Oblivion is going on!" Her words fell on deaf ears however, and the red-haired thief walked to the stables, her pace faster than normal, yet her hips still swayed in time with her steps in an almost hypnotic way.

Ignoring the poor stable hand, who blushed and asked her how she was, Qassanda jumped over the old wooden gate fencing of the horses' grassy enclosure and grabbed Frostbite's reins.

She pulled the stallion after her as she moved to push the gate open.

It creaked in protest to her roughness and she shut it after her, mounting Frostbite and leaving Cheydinhal without another glance.

After a week and a few days, Qassanda arrived in Bruma. The bruises around her neck had turned a painful dark purple and she bore them like a medallion, despite the aching pain shooting through her throat.

Qassanda sensed something was wrong before everything went to Oblivion. The air crackled and sparked, like a mage's spell, so she tied her pack to Frostbite and removed a few things she would need. She then stood in front of the stallion and looked him directly in the eye.

"Frostbite, listen to me, boy. I want you to go straight to Riften, don't stop. Do you understand?" Frostbite snorted and Qassanda opened the gate to the mountain range, slapping his flank.

Frostbite whinnied loudly and cantered away, Qassanda's lush eyes following his shape as his hooves struck the ground loudly.

_That_ was when everything went wrong. A soldier sprinted into the city, his sword raised and a yell of fury on his lips. His body was covered with the brown, leathery armour of the Imperial legion. A blonde man with fair skin turned in surprise and was immediately decapitated.

The head rolled to a stop at Qassanda's feet and she gasped in surprise. Battle cries echoed around the city, it seemed that everyone was fighting a long, bloody fight. Bruma's people screamed and fled to their homes, mothers hushed the babes nuzzled to their breasts as they wailed and screamed.

Qassanda stepped backwards, away from the carnage, and straight into a pair of powerful arms. She was squeezed so tightly that she couldn't breathe and twisted to catch a glimpse of her attacker, as fleeting as a butterfly flitting from a flower, but enough to recognise the Imperial legion armour he wore. He held her fast and called a name she didn't know.

An Impeial drove his sword through a man cradling the stump of his arm and walked over, the cocky gait of a fool hurrying him over. He grinned at Qassanda and lifted his sword, only to beat her savagely over the head with the pommel.

As her mind drifted away from the arms of consciousness, she heard through the fuzzy sounds of battle, a shout which projected only the purest power

"**Fus!**"

* * *

**AN: I've changed the location of the Stormcloak's capture to Bruma, because I think it slots into my story better than in the base version. I think we all know who is shouting towards the end of the chapter, and I promise that I'll try my best to make the next chapter as unique as a Helgen chapter can get (I personally don't like the monotony of Helgen chapters, even in really good stories they seem to be boring!)**

**I'm sorry for the short chapter and long update. I injured myself in Archery (like an idiot) and it hurts to move my left hand :(. Rest assured, I'll be fine soon and Lucien (Which is the name I gave to my recurve bow) is in time out until I feel good again.**

_**Nex keyr Zu'u fraan nol Kred do Krund ahrk tiraazom Zu'u fraan nol Paagol Dilon, Zu'u fraan ful noorendaalgaar laagus**_


	6. Dragons and Dreams

**Here's the Helgen chapter! We also get a little insight into Brynjolf's relationship with Arya and how Vilkas fits into that.**

**MASSIVE thanks to Brelania for her proofreading and general help to make this legible writing, and not the messy scribblings you find on a mental patient's wall!**

**I don't own Bethesda or Skyrim. Qassanda is my own creation and Arya belongs to my younger sister. All other characters are owned by Bethesda**

* * *

Rage. There was so much rage. Truly, some sadness was buried deep inside, but it was smothered by the rage.

Brynjolf petted Frostbite's light blue flank. The horse had returned to Riften in a hurry, exhausted from what was no doubt a long and tedious ride, yet Qassanda was not perched upon his back.

The stallion nuzzled Brynjolf, nickering as if to comfort him. The red-haired thief simply glared and tossed a few coins at Shadr, who looked up in surprise.

"Treat him with extra care, he's had a long ride," Brynjolf grumbled as he stormed back into the city. It seemed to take an eternity to walk into the graveyard, then to descend the hidden steps into the cistern.

If his sister was dead, then what? He had raised her after their parents had died. She was the most precious thing on Nirn. Neither gold, nor jewels could match how valuable she was, especially to him.

Arya deserved to know.

As painful as it was to think of that beautifully angled face, and know that it was another who made her happy, Brynjolf knew that the Bosmer should have known of what became of her close friend. She would want to.

Brynjolf didn't even need to make the painful trip to Whiterun. Arya and her -the word made his heart ache – husband were currently staying in Riften on some business of Arya's.

Brynjolf knocked on the door of Mjoll the Lioness' home. He knew of Arya's friendship with the woman, and though she was away from Riften, he had little doubt that she would allow the elf to use her home.

Surely enough, the door began to creak open, although, (don't need this comma) standing with one hand on the door and blocking the small opening was not the woman he had fallen in love with.

Brynjolf stood strong against the glare Vilkas shot him. He knew that the Companion was hardly controlling of his wife, and that he was fond of Qassanda, but he also knew that he saw the hidden glances of longing and shielded sadness the thief directed at Arya.

The scowl he wore told Brynjolf all he needed to know. It told him that this man was aware of his love towards Arya, and that he was determined to keep her to himself.

"What do you want, thief?" his question was a low growl, hinting at the territorial beast within him which wanted nothing more than to tear Brynjolf apart for even _wanting _to make a move on _his _mate. Her soothing voice immediately calmed him.

"Vilkas? Who is it, love?" Asked the smooth, lilting elfish voice. Brynjolf called out in Vilkas' stead.

"It's me, Arya." There was the patter of bare feet against wood and Arya appeared, her beautiful, red hair messily tied behind her head with a leather strip, and a large wooden spoon coated in something white in her hand.

A smile touched Arya's dark red lips.

"Bryn! It's been a while, how have you been?" Her pure silver eyes blinked up at him curiously.

"I've been just fine, lass. How are you?" Brynjolf asked. A grin flashed the short elf's teeth.

"I'm making sweetrolls! Here, try this!" She pushed the spoon into Brynjolf's face, the sweet smelling icing coating it clung to his short facial hair as it drooped from the spoon.

The thief grimaced as he turned it away.

"I actually came to talk to you about something serious, lass."

Arya's face immediately changed from playful and joyous to confused and slightly frightened.

"What is it?" she asked seriously. Brynjolf closed his eyes, unable to look at her face.

"Something's happened to Qassanda," he sighed, his heart clenched as Arya gasped and his green eyes slid open and met with hers, which were pooling with tears. She dropped the spoon to the ground and covered her mouth with both thin hands.

"Gods… what happened to her?" she whispered, Brynjolf gritted his teeth, then spoke.

"She travelled to Cyrodiil for a while, to explore, she took Frostbite with her. Today he came back, with only her pack tied to his saddle." He took a shuddering breath and revealed the worst part.

"And blood spattered across him." He muttered softly. Vilkas pulled Arya closer to him and held her against his chest as she began to weep, hushing her softly and stroking her back to help calm her.

Though his mind was filled with confusion and hope, wonder and sadness, Brynjolf couldn't stop that small voice in his mind which said _it should be me comforting her_.

* * *

Qassanda felt her body shake and bounce uncomfortably; her eyes slid open and immediately laid on a blonde Nord sitting in front of her, his hands bound in his lap.

The man was sleeping, so Qassanda looked around, they were sitting in a cart, her and three men; the blonde before her, wearing unmistakable Stormcloak armour, and a dark haired man sitting beside the blonde, wearing nothing but a roughly made tunic and uncomfortable looking pants. His hands were also bound, and he was also unconscious.

Then was the man beside her, he was hunched over, so Qassanda couldn't see his face and his back was covered in a fur cloak.

The blonde man woke up as the cart gave a jolt, his eyes immediately focussed on Qassanda.

"You. You're the woman from Bruma, aren't you?" he asked in his thick Nordic accent. Qassanda nodded calmly and looked at the Imperial soldiers on horseback escorting them, as well as the second wagon trailing behind them.

"Where do you think they're taking us?" she asked the Nord. He gazed at her with sad eyes.

"Where do _you_ think?" He sighed. That was all Qassanda needed. She sighed and looked down at the rough ropes binding her wrists, rubbing at her skin painfully.

After a short silence the blonde Nord spoke again.

"What happened to your neck?"

Qassanda blinked in surprise, her bound hands rising to the painful bruise to stroke the tender skin, the man beside her shifted and he turned his head slightly her way, revealing lake blue eyes and dirty blonde hair braided on both sides, a Nordic custom for nobility. A gag covered his lower face, some of his facial hair showing from underneath.

Qassanda shifted her eyes to the Nord across from her.

"It's not an important story, kinsman." She sighed. The man gave a sad smile.

"Call me Ralof."

Qassanda shared his smile with one of her own.

"Ralof, huh? Interesting…my name is Hjotra," she said, rolling the 'r' across her tongue.

"Where are you from, Hjotra?" He asked, tilting his head slightly to the left.

Qassanda answered immediately, it wasn't like her to be caught out in a lie, anyway.

"Windhelm."

This seemed to interest the man beside her more than Ralof, who raised an eyebrow.

"I've never seen you before, Hjotra," he said, confusion lacing his powerful voice. Qassanda shrugged.

"I keep to myself often," she said quietly, the man beside Ralof awoke as the cart jolted violently.

"What's going on? Where are we?" He gasped.

Qassanda felt immediate dislike towards the man.

"We're in a cart, idiot," Ralof chuckled and explained to the man why they were there, his eyes became wider and wider with each word

"By the gods…you!" The man glanced at Qassanda. "You and I, we shouldn't be here. It's these damned Stormcloaks who the Empire wants!" He looked at Ralof again.

"Tell them we're not with you!"

Ralof's voice was as flat as his expression.

"You should face your death with some pride, kinsman. Where are you from?" The nameless man scowled.

"What does it matter-" his voice was halted by Ralof.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

The man looked at the floor of the cart for a moment.

"My name is Lokir, I'm from Rorikstead," he sighed. "I can't believe this is happening!" he muttered. Qassanda rolled her lush eyes and closed them, tilting her head up and allowing spots of sunlight to sink through the leaves of the trees above and light her skin brilliantly.

The cart jolted roughly and Qassanda fell, her head landing on the shoulder of the man beside her. She felt his eyes on her and didn't shift.

"I hope you don't mind," she murmured softly, not opening her eyes, "is it not comforting to have someone close before you die?" She heard a quiet sigh and the man relaxed under her head.

Another jolt made Qassanda emit a low hiss of irritation as something dug into her breast; she lifted her hands again and dug around in her shirt, uncaring of the blushing faces turned towards her.

Her hands finally brushed against the hard metal of the ring which had almost caused her death, she lifted it out and looked at it.

The band was plain copper, the pearl inlaid gave off a glint in the dots of sunlight which reflected against it. She turned the ring around in her hands, small runes glowing with the slightest green hinted at an enchantment, and from experience she could read the runes as shadow-cloaking runes, designed to shield the wearer from sight.

Looking on the inside of the band, a short sentence was found engraved into it:

_For my dearest Speaker._

Qassanda slipped the ring on and relaxed her body again, gazing out at the trees in the space between Ralof and Lokir.

A glimpse of blue furrowed the thief's brow and caused a shiver to tickle her spine; she closed her eyes and touched her neck again, still able to feel the spectre's cold hand against her throat, squeezing away her life.

The thud of hooves against dirt moulded into a harsh clop as the wagon moved onto a paved stone path leading into the town ahead. Qassanda's eyes rested on the open gates, she lifted her head from the furs on the man's shoulder and she kissed him on the cheek softly, causing Ralof to stare on in shock and Lokir to simply look at her stupidly.

The thief looked at the other Nords.

"Is there a reason why you're staring?" They were silent and Qassanda sighed and began to sing.

"_There is a tale of a thief so fine,  
eyes entangle like wild vines,  
hair the colour of freshest blood,  
but beware her honeyed tongue._

_She makes you weak with just a glance,  
takes all she wants at the first chance,  
though never should you cross this thief,  
for you'll die with poison's heat._

_O beauty takes form, and that form is hers,  
to us she's a god, to her, we're dirt.  
And never offer to her your heart;  
all you'll get is a knife in the dark._

_Beautiful thief, Nocturnal's daughter,  
she looks at us like pigs for slaughter,  
don't let her absorb you with charm,  
there's nothing better than her sword arm."_

A soldier twisted around in the saddle.

"Shut up back there," he snarled as the wagon rumbled to a halt and the passengers were ordered out.

The man Qassanda had kissed dropped to the ground and approached the Nord man in Imperial armour, holding a small book and a quill in his hand, and a woman beside him wearing Imperial officer armour. Lokir followed him, then Qassanda and finally Ralof dropped to the ground. The ugly officer told them to move into the group standing before the chopping block, Qassanda smirked as Ralof sighed and muttered, "Empire loves their damn lists." The calm Nordic man beside the officer began to call out names.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

The gagged man stepped forwards and moved towards the block, Qassanda blushed furiously, hoping that only the Jarl had caught onto her lies, and forgave her for the fact that she kissed him. Ralof muttered something else as the Jarl moved to the block, proud even as he faced his death.

"It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric."

Qassanda smiled to herself at the man's loyalty as the Nord called another name out.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Ralof followed his Jarl with his head held high and pride governing his steps, the Nord in Imperial armour looked down at his list again.

"Lokir of Rorikstead." The thief stepped forwards, panic in his voice.

"No! I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!" he cried, sprinting down the road as the ugly officer called after him in her unattractive voice.

"Halt!"

Lokir allowed some semblance of hope enter his words.

"You're not going to kill me!" he cried. The poor man's hope was obviously crushed as the officer called to the man standing at the base of a watchtower.

"Archers!" And a flight of arrows found home in Lokir's flesh. He was killed, just like that. The ugly officer turned back to Qassanda, but spoke to everyone present.

"Anyone else feel like running?" she spat threateningly, and Qassanda entertained the image in her mind of feeding her to a dremora. Qassanda was snapped from her thoughts as the Nordic man turned to her.

"Wait. You there, step forward."

Qassanda moved closer, tilting her head and half-closing her eyes in one of the most beautiful looks anyone could conjure. He swallowed thickly and continued.

"Who…are you?"

Qassanda lied without batting an eye.

"Hjotra of Windhelm."

He looked back at his list.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."

Qassanda didn't look him in the eye as he turned to the ugly woman at his side.

"Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

The captain scowled at him.

"Forget the list, she goes to the block."

Qassanda scowled at the woman and the Nord in Imperial armour seemed to be unhappy.

"By your orders, Captain." His eyes returned to Qassanda. "I'm sorry. At least you'll die here, in your homeland." Qassanda still refused to look at him and he sighed.

"Follow the Captain, Hjotra."

Qassanda took her place in the crowd of Stormcloaks awaiting Sovengarde and cast her lush eyes onto Ulfric, and the man standing before him, his armour not even _trying _to hide his identity as General Tullius.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he greeted with a cocky assuredness which tempted Qassanda to remove his cock. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Qassanda allowed a scowl to twist her plump lips.

A need to defend the man she had been sweet for as a young woman arose, and yet Qassanda bit her tongue. What good would it do?

Ulfric tried to say something beneath his gag, but his words emerged as a grunt, muffled by the cloth. Tullius continued, intent on lowering Ulfric's spirits before finally executing him.

"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos!" His voice rose. "And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" An odd sound echoed through the skies, making Qassanda's eyes follow the many others to the expanse of blue, empty of all but fluffy clouds.

"What _was _that?" muttered the Nord in Imperial armour, Tullius glanced at him.

"It's nothing, carry on." The captain saluted and Qassanda giggled at how stiffly she moved. The thief shifted slightly to a Nord man in Stormcloak armour beside her.

"I'd wager that she's tighter than a fish's arse," she muttered. The Stormcoak smothered a laugh and Qassanda felt elated that she improved the mood of a man who was to die. The captain looked at a priestess of Arkay.

"Give them their last rites."

The woman raised her arms grandly.

"As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the eight divines upon you."

Qassanda scowled. There were _nine _divines.

Brynjolf had raised her to speak of the nine, and by the gods, she would die with a true belief in her heart of the nine! The priestess continued.

"For you are the salt, and-"

"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with," (Comma) growled the Stormcloak beside Qassanda, cutting off the priestess and moving towards the block, the woman frowned at his disrespect.

"As you wish."

The Stormcloak stood proudly before the block.

"Come on," he snarled "I haven't got all morning." The general forced him to his knees and placed her foot upon his back, lowering his head towards the block.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials, can you say the same?" he said bravely, then fell silent as the headsman lifted his axe high above him and swung it greatly, departing the man's head from his body.

The captain carelessly kicked his body away from the block; Qassanda closed her eyes at the shout of a woman.

"You Imperial bastards!"

An Imperial countered her cry with his own.

"Justice!"

An Imperial woman joined the hollers.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

Ralof's accented voice was mournful.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," he murmured as if it were a prayer, Qassanda offered a brave smile to the man to her right. He returned it with his own brave smile and Qassanda could only hope that they met again in the halls of Sovengarde.

The Imperial captain spoke again.

"Next! The whore in the rags!"

Qassanda narrowed her eyes at the woman, a snarl on her lips. She was the only one left in rags, since Lokir had been sent to Sovengarde, and almost missed the growl echoing in the skies.

"There it is again, did you hear that?" asked the Nord in Imperial armour, the captain scowled and Qassanda had to look away from how much uglier it made her as she spoke.

"I said; next prisoner!" she spat. As the many eyes laid upon Qassanda, she squared her shoulders and raised her head; the Nord in Imperial armour gazed at her once again with sad eyes.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

Qassanda walked towards the block and felt the captain force her to her knees beside the Stormcloak soldier's corpse.

Qassanda felt the heavy foot upon her back and was pushed onto the block, swallowing as the warm blood from the last victim coated her swollen neck. Opening her eyes, Qassanda found herself staring right into the unseeing eyes of that man.

Suppressing a shudder. Qassanda turned her head and closed her eyes as the headsman raised his axe, to the sound of Tullius' cry.

"What in _oblivion _is that?" the captain called to her guards.

"Sentries! What do you see?" one of them shrieked.

"It's in the clouds!"

Qassanda opened her eyes as the ground rumbled and the headsman dropped his axe. It was right there. A creature which only existed in stories! Its little red eyes focussed on Qassanda as its black maw parted and released a roar of purest power, darkening the skies and causing chunks of rock to fall like rain, a woman screamed.

"Dragon!"

Tullius began shouting orders and Qassanda felt a rough hand loop around her waist and pull her to her feet, she shook her head to clear her vision as her head spun and Ralof released her.

"Hey, Hjotra, get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"

Qassanda didn't need to be told twice, she followed the blonde Nord like a lost dog into a tower, tripping over and landing on a pile of Imperial armour. Not wanting to think of the dusty powder coating her body, Qassanda shrieked as she tripped again and landed on Ralof's back, an arrow slicing through the meaty underside of her leg instead of his.

Ralof helped Qassanda climb to her feet and supported her as she limped to the keep painfully, slamming the door behind her and slumping against a wall to cradle her bleeding leg. She pressed her fingers to the injury in hope of stemming the bleeding but the red liquid oozed out from beneath her fingers as she watched Ralof turn to Ulfric.

"Jarl Ulfric! What was that thing? Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric's deep Nordic voice turned the thief's ash-covered cheeks the same colour as her hair.

"Legends don't burn down villages." He caught a glance of Qassanda crouched in the corner and stood above her, offering his hand.

After considering for a moment, Qassanda wrapped both of her bound hands around his warm one; he pulled her to her feet and wrapped an arm around her waist to support her as she stood painfully. He flicked his head to gesture Ralof over and while the tall man supported her, Ralof blushed and apologised before tearing a few strips from the bottom of Qassanda's tunic, baring her flat, toned stomach to her navel and kneeling to wrap them around her leg tightly.

Once Qassanda's leg was bound, Ulfric sat her back against the wall, helping to tend to the two soldiers on the ground with injuries, he turned to Ralof.

"We need to move. Now!"

Ralof nodded.

"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof walked with the injured man, who clutched his side as they moved. A soldier whose name Qassanda didn't know picked up the wounded woman gently and carried her up the stairs slowly, and Ulfric's arm was back around Qassanda's waist, supporting her where her weakened leg wouldn't.

They moved up the stairs together and Ulfric yanked Qassanda back, shouting a warning to the soldier carrying his injured friend which was too late to be heeded as the dragon's head broke through the wall and belched a long stream of fire from its mouth. Ralof called out for the group to leap out of the tower and into the roof of an inn.

He went first with the man clutching his side, and without a word, Ulfric slung Qassanda onto his back, she swung her arms over his head and clutched his clothes desperately.

The thief was only able to watch as he followed Ralof, landing in the inn with a thud and not allowing Qassanda time to move from his back as he ran through Helgen at an admirable speed for a man weighed down by another.

Ulfric followed Ralof and the soldier into Helgen's keep and sat her down on a table as he knelt by the side of the soldier who had been with Ralof, the man was bleeding out slowly and once he died, Ralof gently closed his eyes with his fingers.

"We'll meet again in Sovengarde, brother." He sighed and Ulfric took something from the blonde, moving towards Qassanda with a simply made dagger in his hands.

He released Qassanda's wrists as he cut the rope and she rubbed at the red marks, not meeting the eyes of the one who had rescued her.

Ulfric looked down at Qassanda.

"You're in no state to fight," he said simply, Qassanda blushed and Ralof met her gaze evenly.

"My Jarl, if you could carry Hjotra, I will fight by myself." It took a full minute for him to convince the warrior that he would be alright, after which they heard the footsteps slamming onto the ground.

Qassanda groaned and her vision blacked out. Once she could see, there was a pair of dead Imperials on the ground, and Ralof was rummaging around on the one she recognised as the ugly officer.

A concerned look gathered on Ulfric's face and he moved closer to Qassanda. He pushed her hair off of her face and felt her hot forehead.

"How do you feel?" he asked worriedly, Qassanda groaned again.

"Like shit," she mumbled, touching her sensitive throat. Now that it was silent inside the fort, the thick walls halting the sounds of the dragon attack, Qassanda could hear her own breathing, which was thin and raspy, abnormal for the one who had been away from the fighting and carried to the keep.

"I…feel like…I'm being strangled…I…can't breathe," she forced out, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead.

Ulfric swore.

"I think she's been poisoned!" he told Ralof, who trotted over, unable to ignore just how beautiful Qassanda looked when she was hot and sweaty.

"Talos guide you," he murmured, unable to think of anything else to do.

Qassanda looked up at him weakly and Ulfric lifted her into his arms.

"We need to get out of here, quickly!"

Qassanda drifted in and out of consciousness, only feeling the cool glass pressed against her lips as she was forced to drink something.

The bitter taste made her cough, her already sensitive throat burning from the action, but her leg began to feel the slightest bit better, and the tiredness took her into the cool arms of a dream.

_A beautiful woman glanced around, her eyes were the pale green of sagebrush, her pupils slitted like a beast's and her hair was as black as night, small black ears like a Khajiit's perched upon her head. Those eyes passed over Qassanda as if she wasn't there at all and she fingered the dagger at her waist cautiously. The woman's eyes suddenly focussed on Qassanda and her pink lips twitched into a smile, she said nothing. Just kept watching, and smiling._

* * *

**Yeah, get used to the strange dream sequences, because there's MOAR. I swear they aren't all so weird and you'll soon find out how the Hero of Kvatch works into this story.**

**As I sit, pondering over what message to write here, an idea strikes me like the wrath of my computer having a fit. "I could write about Saint's row!" I cry aloud, my fingers swiping across the keyboard methodically pressing individual keys. I pause in confusion as a discovery comes to light. "Why does my commercial at sign come from the key where the quotation marks come from?" I gasp in surprise. "And why do quotation marks come from my commercial at sign?" Cautiously pressing my fingers into individual keys, my frown deepens. "This wasn't happening yesterday!" I cry, rage gripping me in red claws as I slam a fist against my desk, the wood creaking in protest. I sigh heavily and lean back in my chair, which squeaks loudly. "How do I write about Saints row now?" I whimper softly, one hand straying to pet the dog panting at my feet. Once again, an idea strikes me. "I could just write about this!" I giggle loudly, hurriedly pressing keys to record this small story and waste your time.**


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